


They Don't Know About Us; Don't Make A Sound

by vaguesalvation



Category: Super Junior
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguesalvation/pseuds/vaguesalvation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While recording their duet for 4jib, Yesung teaches Kyuhyun the finer points of submission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Don't Know About Us; Don't Make A Sound

The wooden bench is solid and unforgiving under his back, pressing against his spine and flattening out his shoulder blades, and it’s such a contrast to the warm softness surrounding his cock that he gasps. It’s the loudest he’ll let himself be, the most appreciation he’ll voice for the mouth that fits around him, the tongue that dips hot and slick into the slit in the head. His legs are thrown to either side of the bench and it feels like the circulation to his feet is being cut off, but he can’t bring himself to care much. The tingling in his limbs only adds to the slightly off-balanced pleasure, another disparity to make the encounter just this side of perfect.

He’s not really sure how they got to be where they are now. Not physically. He knows he’s in the studio, in one of the countless recording rooms on the fifth floor. He’s been here before, knows there’s an isolation booth a few feet away and an acoustic sitting in the corner, its strings taut and ready to be strummed. He knows if he were here with Sungmin that’s what they would be doing, sitting, singing, laughing maybe as Sungmin’s fingers fumble a chord. If it were Ryeowook, which it often is, they would be going over compositions and matching pitch and creating. Thing is it’s not Sungmin’s fingers that are holding his hips down against the bench; it’s not Ryeowook’s eyes that glance up through side-swept bangs.

He’s not sure, but he roughly remembers something about a duet and thinking the execs must be insane, something like a begrudging agreement to get along for a few hours. He thinks this might be considered getting along, though he doubts anyone is any saner for it. He definitely isn’t, what with the way his fingers grip the sides of the bench, as the warmth is suddenly gone, replaced with cool air. Another contrast. He adds it to the list of reasons this isn’t a good idea.

“Jongwoon,” he all but growls, clenching his teeth to keep from whining. He feels more than hears the chuckle from Yesung’s lips, much the same way he feels the breath against his skin as Yesung slides up to settle over him.

He swallows back a moan as Yesung’s fingers encircle his wrists, pushing his arms up until they lie flat above his head. The bench is just long enough for Yesung to stretch him out across it, just far enough away from the piano to avoid accidentally hitting the instrument. Their noses are almost touching and Yesung’s pupils are blown to hell, and he’d be lying if he said they haven’t been dancing around this… thing between them for years. He arches instinctively into Yesung’s chest, feels sweat cool where the small of his back had been pressed to the wood, fights down another moan when his erection brushes against Yesung’s tight jeans.

“Worried someone’s going to hear how much you want it?” Yesung asks, voice a flawless blend of self-satisfaction and curiosity. He doesn’t answer. He knows no one can hear them. This room has enough insulation to conceal a murder, and he’s never been particularly loud. Still, it’s the principle of the thing, a deep-rooted pride that keeps his lips sealed.

When Yesung kisses him though, rough, bruising, he can’t help the small whimper that escapes his throat. His eyes close and he tilts his head back, lets Yesung’s tongue slide in between his lips. He forgets for a moment that he isn’t supposed to like this. He forgets that he’s supposed to be fighting, like he had in the beginning, before Yesung had pushed him back against the bench and kneeled between his legs.

He can taste himself through the layers of spices in Yesung’s mouth, tangy-salty, hidden beneath cigarette smoke and too strong black tea. He doesn’t know how he feels about it, the fact that everything about them is so different, yet seems to line up. They’re far from perfect for each other, and yet he can’t seem to bring himself to pull away. He doesn’t want to pull away, doesn’t want this to end, and maybe that’s because he’s so hard it hurts.

Yesung is dissatisfied with his silence, seems determined to draw more sounds out of him. His fingers curl into his palms and he gasps into the kiss when Yesung rocks their hips together, friction made hotter by rough denim and the arch of his spine. He’s sure he’ll come if Yesung keeps doing that, embarrassingly fast and with too little direct stimulation. The idea makes his cheeks get warm and he rips his mouth away to suck in a few needed breaths. Yesung barely notices, just moves on to his throat, dipping to suck at the hollow just behind his ear. He has to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, and he rolls his hips unconsciously.

“So pretty like this,” Yesung says, and it comes out sounding both mocking and encouraging. He lifts one of his legs and wraps it around Yesung’s hips, hoping to gain some control of the tiny motions they make against each other. Yesung keeps talking, breath warming the side of his neck, “you love it and can’t even admit it, too proud to say you want me to fuck you. How do you want it? Fast? Hard? Do you want me to keep holding you down like this?”

He doesn’t speak. He pushes Yesung’s hips down against his again with his heel and shivers uncontrollably at the friction it provides.

Yesung chuckles again. “Or maybe you’d prefer I go slow, take my time with you, fill you up until I’m all you can feel.”

He can’t stifle his moan when Yesung bites at his earlobe. The words are both humiliating and arousing.

“You’re just aching for it, aren’t you?” Yesung whispers, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

And that’s it; he can feel his resolve breaking down around him, because honestly, he is aching for it now. He wants so bad it hurts, makes his limbs feel too heavy and his head too light. There are too many contradictions and he needs something, anything.

In a last ditch effort to keep his control, he laughs soft and ironic into Yesung’s shoulder and whispers in a voice that sounds remarkably like his own, “Fuck you.”

And really, too much of this whole event has been unfamiliar that he would have to be both blind and deaf to expect Yesung to just take those words, that insolence. Yesung the idol would laugh back at him, excuse his disrespect for being young and privileged. On camera, in front of a crowd, Yesung would do something foolish and fight for attention.

But Yesung the man, Kim Jongwoon, demands attention without so much as a word spoken and this time is no different. He’s almost prepared for it when Yesung drops one of his wrists to take his chin between strong fingers. His head is forced to turn, sharp nails digging into his cheeks, and his eyes meet Yesung’s.

“When was it decided you could speak to me like that?” Yesung asks, voice low and dangerous.

He could take control back now, completely. He’s stronger than Yesung physically, and one of his hands is free now. All he’d have to do is reach up, push Yesung off him and take what Yesung would have no choice but to give him.

But physicality has never really been his style.

So instead, he smirks the best he can with his cheeks squashed against his teeth and says, “Maybe it was when you got on your knees for me.”

And, yeah, okay, maybe those words weren’t exactly the best way to go, but he feels a little more like himself now, even as Yesung is hauling the both of them up off the bench. He keeps smirking even as he is turned around and pushed up against the piano, bent over until his cheek is lying across the top and his hands have to come up to keep his chest from pressing too hard into the fall. This, he did expect, if maybe a little different.

What he doesn’t expect are the hands that push his jeans down over his hips, the fingers that skate under his t-shirt. He shivers at the feel of Yesung’s breath against the back of his neck. He feels a little violated, and even more excited, when he hears the click of a lid behind him.

He scoffs. “What, do you just come in expecting to fuck whoever you’re working with?”

Yesung doesn’t miss a beat. “I wasn’t expecting to be working with just you today, was I?”

That’s true, he thinks. Ryeowook had stayed home to work on the composition for his solo, but they had come in with both Sungmin and Donghae earlier that day, before they’d been informed of the change in their album’s content. Sungmin and Donghae had left early for dance practice and he and Yesung had been ushered into this room.

He wonders, vaguely, which of the others Yesung had planned to do this with, but he’s only given a moment to ponder before his thoughts stop dead. A finger pushes into him, slick like Yesung’s tongue had been but cooler. He bites down on the inside of his forearm, tries to keep a whimper from tearing from his throat when Yesung brushes his prostate, just stays buried knuckle deep for a few moments. There are teeth and lips at his shoulder where his shirt has been pushed up.

Another finger presses in, and another. Yesung is whispering again, but he can’t decipher what about over the rush of blood in his ears. This isn’t a new thing for him, this isn’t his first time, but there’s something unusual about this, whatever this is. It’s just sex, he tells himself, but it feels like more than that. It feels like more than just a release of tension.

It feels like a compromise, like an agreement.

He’s not sure what to make of that.

“Couldn’t you be doing something more productive than teasing me,” he says, his breath creating condensation on the surface of the piano. He lifts a little on his toes, trying to get Yesung to move, to do anything.

“Kyuhyun-ah,” Yesung says, his voice just a little taunting, “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to ask for the things you want?”

Maybe it’s the humiliation from being talked to like a child, or maybe it was the way Yesung said his name, but his legs suddenly feel weak, like rubber has replaced his bones. He shudders and moans, letting more of his weight fall against the piano, letting it hold him up. He’s probably lucky it didn’t scoot out from under him.

Yesung pulls out of him and there is nothing. He feels empty, and slightly ashamed for the fact that it affects him, in more ways than just making him frustrated and desperate for release. He whimpers, a weak sound from the back of his throat that sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

It amuses Yesung, who leans over him, close to his ear and whispers, “Come on, Kyuhyun-an. All you have to do is ask.”

Yeah, it’s definitely the name, he thinks to himself as he gasps and tries to dig his nails into varnished wood.

He thinks nothing will ever be the same after this. He thinks this is the beginning of some kind of end, or the end to a beginning, or something equally ominous and noteworthy. His face is still pressed against the top of the piano and his hips dig painfully into the side.

Yesung slides fingers through the hair at the base of his neck and bites at his earlobe again and he stands no chance.

“How bad do you want it?” Yesung asks.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, “Just…”

“Just what?”

“Just fuck me. Please.”

He feels Yesung smirk against the side of his neck. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

It goes smoothly from there, just a few minutes wait before Yesung is slipping inside him. He nearly screams when Yesung bites down on his shoulder again, hard this time, sucking a bruise into existence and soothing the hurt flesh with his tongue afterward. He has no leverage, his legs useless except to keep him standing. It’s hard and fast at first, a frantic race toward a common end. But it slows eventually, becomes much less a competition. He feels almost comfortable in his position, almost like he belongs here. It doesn’t have to mean anything, it just is, and they can coexist like this.

He comes first, hard, his hand slamming down on the piano keys. The sound it makes covers up his moan, a discordant array of notes, another imperfection.

He’s too breathless and sated to care anymore.


End file.
